


You're a Green One, Mr. Grouch

by WeekendWriter



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Body Paint, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Pre-Slash, Shenanigans, To Catch a Blacklister
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 15:32:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8996455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeekendWriter/pseuds/WeekendWriter
Summary: When Reddington comes to him and his partner to ask for help catching an international art dealer, Donald has very firm opinions about who should be the painter and who should be the paintee. But when has Liz ever been one to follow the plan?
And what would a plan be without Reddington throwing in a few wrenches along the way?





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aussieokie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aussieokie/gifts).



> This gift is part of the Blacklist Secret Santa exchange for the lovely aussieokie. Hope this bit of Keenler helps make your holiday season brighter!

“What do you think you’re doing with that!?”

Donald ignored Liz’s pained cry and steeled his nerves for the task at hand. Not an hour beforehand he’d met with Reddington, who announced with his usual flair that the next target on the Blacklist was an _international art dealer_ , of all things, who would recognize whatever they were using for undercover work unless it related directly to honest-to-God splatter painting. 

Of course, his first instinct when it came to splatter-painting was to fling one of the cans of red nearby onto his partner. 

“Ress—what the hell—” To say Liz was pissed was the _understatement_ of the century, and they’d been involved in quite a few _understatements_ the past few months, in his opinion. 

Which meant that Reddington hadn’t relayed the entire plan to her. Great.

“Just…” Donald stopped long enough to cease the sloshing from the gallon bucket in his hands. “Go with it. Okay, partner?”

Liz’s startled gaze held his, until those blue eyes narrowed in determination. 

“Whoa, Keen, now hold on a sec—”

He backed up slowly, can now held up loosely in what he hoped was a submissive gesture, but his partner pounced. Donald had only enough time to shield the side of his face before the wall of liquid splattered over his suit and in his hair.

“KEEN!”

“Fair’s fair, right?”

Slowly, Donald lowered his hand and flicked the glob dripping from the back of it. This was a _nice_ suit, goddamn it. His hair was going to be a total loss for the rest of the day; _maybe_ the tie could be salvaged—

_SPLASH_

—or not. 

He brushed the green from his left eye and steeled his expression to throw a glare her way. That was just dirty. But the gleeful grin she shot his way softened some of the anger.

That, and he was sure there was no way he could look intimidating when he was covered in enough green to stand in for the Grinch.

Liz burst into laughter and lowered her ammo. “You—” Laughter shook her small frame. She tried to begin her sentence two more times, stopping to double over, before she managed, “—look like the Grouch! You’re Oscar… cause you’re always such a damn _grouch_!”

Donald only managed a frown for a few seconds; sue him, her laughter was infectious. He stopped to lean on his knee, briefly wondering when the last time was that he had laughed this much.

Shit, maybe she was right. 

“Well this simply will not do.”

Donald started and turned to see Reddington’s casual stroll into the gallery. By now, he should be used to the guy’s sudden appearances. More unnerving was the way his right hand, Dembe, moved about. Dembe should have been about as subtle as a brick through a window, but he was stealthy despite his impressive size.

Reddington stopped just short of him (despite all his knowledge of proper manners, he somehow missed out on the personal space lessons) and frowned. “Donald, how do you expect to participate in an art auction when you look like the one who is going to be auctioned off?”

“I… she—” The _started it_ died in Donald’s throat the second he realized how childish the statement sounded. Liz stifled a snort behind her hand.

“We have to make sure this auction will draw out our Blacklister of the day,” Reddington continued, with an appreciative nod towards Liz’s paint-covered exterior. “This is a start. And once Liz is in place for tonight’s gallery, Donald, you will be the one to ensure she is met with the appropriate amount of fanfare.”

Donald barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes; the guy really brought out the worst in him, he swore. “Fanfare’s usually your thing, isn’t it Reddington?”

The conman’s lips twisted in that half amused, half exasperated way. “Yes, Donald; however, this particular Blacklister is familiar with my face. She will not come with me easily. Now, I can send Dembe in, guns blazing, or we can work a more subtle approach that will be better suited to Lizzie’s safety.”

If there was one thing Reddington had instilled in him these past few months, it was a raging fire to protect his partner. Sure, he didn’t quite understand what was happening with Reddington and the questions arising with his partner’s past; but if he understood anything, it was that an agent always had his partner’s back. And Reddington hardly ever let him in on the entire plan. This was a chance he couldn’t pass up.

So Donald reached for the green paint and tossed a new wave of the sticky liquid onto his partner.

“Ressler—for fuck’s sake, let up!”

“No can-do, Liz.” Donald abandoned the can only when the backsplash behind his partner was a spectacular red-green color that complimented the rest of the gallery nicely. He was nothing if not thorough. 

“Wonderful. This should be a gas. Be here promptly at seven o’clock; the auction will start shortly after. Oh, and Donald?” Reddington paused, the dramatic sap, and brushed his thumb against his own cheek. “You’ve got a bit of, uh— right there.”

Again, Donald only just restrained himself from doing something as immature as flipping the guy off. God, he deserved a medal for the amount of patience he was showing the insufferable criminal. Reddington and his henchman left with about the same amount of flourish they arrived with, and Donald turned to examine his handiwork.

Liz had stripped to little more than a tank-top and shorts before the paint assault – a result of blindly following Red’s orders, thank God – and now resembled every other statue in the gallery; petite, pale, doused in paint. His eyes traced the lines of her legs, the muscle leading up to softness, from which he finally tore himself away from; he wasn’t here to ogle her. He was here to make sure she would provide a convincing but _safe_ likeness for a statue, which would capture the interest of the next Blacklister. 

He brushed a small strand of her hair back to her side pony tail and murmured, “Don’t worry, Keen. If Reddington doesn’t have your back, you know I will.”

Somehow, Donald told himself. He still wasn’t sure exactly how he would. After five years of hunting Reddington, he ended up doing the guy’s bidding at the cost of what was supposed to be his new up-and-coming partner. And everything about her was up-and-coming; Keen was smart, powerful, not to be taken as anybody’s fool. The cases they’d worked so far proved this. But she was still so new in many aspects, and undercover work was one of those.

Hence why he would have to deal with people as the art buyer, and she was playing the sentient sculpture. 

And as he slipped among the glasses-wearing, wine-sipping buyers of the night, he understood completely the aesthetic value of the sculpture Liz made. Her proportions were exactly right; slender arms and legs, ample backside, perky bosom. A much prettier picture than he would have made, if he did say so himself. But something didn’t sit right with him as he roamed the gallery and watched the prospective buyers. By the time the main event was nearing, Donald had near chewed the toothpick from his second martini’s olive to obliteration. 

Dembe’s serious gaze caught his from across the room. The quirked eyebrow was all it took for Donald to remember his earlier comment about drinking on the job.

In response, he tipped the rest of the martini down the hatch, then spit the offending toothpick from his lips when the lights centered on the room’s middle. 

The auctioneer took the stage and announced, in her way-too-perky voice, that the proceedings of the evening were starting. Donald rubbed his jaw. These kinds of events weren’t really for him; give him a cold beer and rare steak any day. But this, the kind of undercover mission where he had to deal with people for hours, he wasn’t here for. Made him itch, if he was being honest. But the small, festering trust he held for Reddington despite all actions telling him not to persisted, as he watched the small, wooden fans raise in anticipation of Keen’s purchase. 

At the last second, he raised his own paddle, raising the stakes to far higher than any rational buyer would be interested in. Reddington soothed confirmations into his earpiece, letting him know that his actions were not in vain (and thank god, because Keen was going to kill him over the paint setting into her hair). The disgruntled Blacklister stormed from the gallery in a huff over the loss, and within minutes, Donald breathed a sigh of relief to know that they had said Blacklister ‘safe’ in Dembe’s custody. 

Which is of course when the shrill blare of the fire alarm ripped through the air, followed by the hiss and spray of the sprinklers above, ruining his second suit of the day.

_Goddamn Reddington_.

 

 

Donald’s hair was a mess, his tie (silk, a gift) was no doubt ruined, and his feet ached from herding the public out of the gallery. But he huffed another sigh of relief as he rounded the corner to the back of the gallery’s building and laid eyes on his partner. 

His drenched, equally-uncomfortable looking partner. Her bangs were plastered to her face, much like his own, and she was attempting to wring out the front of her shirt, but he swore her smile lit up the alleyway. 

“ _Please_ tell me this was worth it. I’m gonna kill you for this regardless, but at least if we pulled it off, there’s a silver lining to your death.”

“Relax, Keen.” His lips quirked upward; she still thought she could take him. 

A black sedan rolled casually through the alleyway, which naturally produced Reddington from one of the back windows. “Ah, Lizzie! You’re looking quite colorful tonight. I would love to stick around, but I have a companion to entertain before I send her off, packing included.”

_Packing included_. Donald snorted. He meant the Post Office. How cute. 

Reddington tossed a salute out of the window before Dembe peeled out of the alleyway. 

Donald raised a hand to run it through his hair. It came back down tinged light green. Great. 

Next to him, Liz shook her hands vigorously. “Listen, uh, Ress… Do you mind if I borrow your shower?”

He jerked his head to look at her in surprise when he remembered the situation with her not-so-much-husband. She’d already come to him once unsure of where to go, and he didn’t blame her. If the events with Audrey had happened in his apartment, he doubted he would have done anything short of burning the place down to avoid stepping inside it ever again.

“Only if you give it back.” Donald cocked a grin her way, and was met with a spectacular eye-roll. “Come on, Keen. Before anything else happens to this suit.”

The apartment was clean, thank God, and Donald was grateful for its warmth as he stepped by to let Liz in the doorway. She tiptoed carefully inside, wary of splashing more pain than necessary on his floors. He was already looking forward to explaining to the cleaning techs why the inside of the SUV looked like someone had vomited Christmas onto the passenger seat. 

“Bathroom’s all the way back, first door on the left,” he called over his shoulder as he hung up his coat. “Should be a clean towel in there.”

Liz padded that way immediately. He didn’t blame her; he couldn’t change out of his sopping wet clothes soon enough. The jeans and button-down were a welcome feeling, and he had just enough time to place a spare pair of sweats and a shirt in the bathroom before the water cut off. 

She emerged as he was digging through the kitchen. The hem of the pant legs dragged on the kitchen floor. He frowned at her bare feet, but she chuckled. “Ress, it’s hot in here. I’m fine.”

He grunted in response. The Oscar comment came to mind. Geez, did he really grouch and grunt that much? It also made him think of the Grinch, and the Christmas currently staining the upholstery in the vehicle and inspiration struck. 

Donald placed two glasses on the counter and rummaged in the cabinets until he produced a bottle of his favorite bourbon. Another minute of searching yielded nothing, so he shrugged a shoulder and poured a generous helping into each glass.

Liz cocked an eyebrow at him. 

“Colors made me think of Christmas, so I was looking for something to make eggnog. This is basically it, right?” Now that he thought about the idea, it seemed stupid. A slow flush spread its way up his neck.

But Liz laughed and raised her glass in cheers. “I guess I could see that. Your shower might look that way for a while. Kidding, kidding!” she added with another laugh when she caught sight of his face. “This is the only good part of eggnog, anyway.”

He was glad she was of the same opinion; he didn’t much care for the flavor of most eggnog, anyway. “Knew you’d come around to sense one of these days, Keen.”

“Right,” she said with a snort, “because everything about today was absolutely sensible.”

“Hey, I did my job well. No idea how to explain a statue walking out of an auction because of a little rain, though,” Donald teased. 

“I followed your suit out since I’m sure it was crusty enough to walk out on its own after that paint.” Liz sipped her bourbon pointedly. 

She had a point there. He swirled his own drink around. He loved the challenge of trying to out-wit her in conversation. Few people could keep up with him, and it wasn’t often he felt comfortable enough breaking the serious mold to try. She brought that out in him, he realized.   
That, and so much more. 

“What do you think Reddington’s doing with the Blacklister before he drops her off?” Liz’s wistful question broke him from his thoughts. 

Donald snorted. “You know the guy better than I do. Your guess is better than mine.”

“He’s really not all that bad.” Her gaze grew serious. “Obviously, I don’t condone much of his behavior, but… he gets results. And he’s not really bound to the law like us.”

“Yeah, well, even if he doesn’t pay taxes, he’s still a citizen of this country and should be as bound by the law as any citizen.” He suddenly wished they weren’t having this conversation. They would never see eye-to-eye when it came to Reddington’s crazy and very-illegal tendencies, but that was okay. They could still respect and work with each other as partners. And he owed it to her to give her the benefit of the doubt when it came to her trust in the con.

He drained the rest of his glass and refilled it, with a tilt of the bottle toward her in an offer. She shrugged, downed the rest of hers in one impressive gulp, and held her glass out. “Best eggnog I’ve ever had.”

A laugh escaped him. “Hey, it’s not the best, but it’s what the budget allows for.”

“No complaints here.”

He missed this, Donald realized. Someone to occupy the empty space in his apartment. Someone to exchange playful banter with at the end of the day to take his mind off the increasingly troubling cases they were sent on. She looked like she needed something like this, too; the haunted look about her had lessened somewhat since she was no longer in her own apartment, but she still looked exhausted. There were dark circles under those bright, intelligent eyes. She looked like she might be losing a bit of weight, too. 

Maybe she was as much in need of someone being around as he was. 

Donald stopped when his eyes reached a bit of paint on the side of her neck. “You, uh, still got a bit—” He made to indicate as Reddington had earlier but instead quickly licked his thumb and reached across to wipe it away himself.

“Ress—what the hell, that’s gross.” She swatted his hand away with a laugh.

He held up his hands in an ‘I give up’ gesture and said, “Fine. Now who’s the grouch?”

Liz stuck her tongue out and he made a face in response. 

Yeah, she brought out the worst in him sometimes, but maybe they both could use a little more of that.


End file.
